Paracelsus: Part V: Paracelsus Attains

Scene.    Salzburg; a cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian. 1541.     Festus, Paracelsus.     Festus.     No change! The weary night is well-nigh spent,     The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars     Grey morning glimmers feebly: yet no change!     Another night, and still no sigh has stirred     That fallen discoloured mouth, no pang relit     Those fixed eyes, quenched by the decaying body,     Like torch-flame choked in dust. While all beside     Was breaking, to the last they held out bright,     As a stronghold where life intrenched itself;     But they are dead now very blind and dead:     He will drowse into death without a groan.     My Aureole my forgotten, ruined Aureole!     The days are gone, are gone! How grand thou wast!     And now not one of those who struck thee down     Poor glorious spirit concerns him even to stay     And satisfy himself his little hand     Could turn God's image to a livid thing.     Another night, and yet no change! 'T is much     That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow,     And chafe his hands; 't is much: but he will sure     Know me, and look on me, and speak to me     Once more but only once! His hollow cheek     Looked all night long as though a creeping laugh     At his own state were just about to break     From the dying man: my brain swam, my throat swelled,     And yet I could not turn away. In truth,     They told me how, when first brought here, he seemed     Resolved to live, to lose no faculty;     Thus striving to keep up his shattered strength,     Until they bore him to this stifling cell:     When straight his features fell, an hour made white     The flushed face, and relaxed the quivering limb,     Only the eye remained intense awhile     As though it recognized the tomb-like place,     And then he lay as here he lies.     Ay, here!     Here is earth's noblest, nobly garlanded     Her bravest champion with his well-won prize     Her best achievement, her sublime amends     For countless generations fleeting fast     And followed by no trace; the creature-god     She instances when angels would dispute     The title of her brood to rank with them.     Angels, this is our angel! Those bright forms     We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones,     Are human, but not his; those are but men     Whom other men press round and kneel before;     Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind;     Higher provision is for him you seek     Amid our pomps and glories: see it here!     Behold earth's paragon! Now, raise thee, clay!     God! Thou art love! I build my faith on that     Even as I watch beside thy tortured child     Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him,     So doth thy right hand guide us through the world     Wherein we stumble. God! what shall we say?     How has he sinned? How else should he have done?     Surely he sought thy praise thy praise, for all     He might be busied by the task so much     As half forget awhile its proper end.     Dost thou well, Lord? Thou canst not but prefer     That I should range myself upon his side     How could he stop at every step to set     Thy glory forth? Hadst thou but granted him     Success, thy honour would have crowned success,     A halo round a star. Or, say he erred,     Save him, dear God; it will be like thee: bathe him     In light and life! Thou art not made like us;     We should be wroth in such a case; but thou     Forgivest so, forgive these passionate thoughts     Which come unsought and will not pass away!     I know thee, who hast kept my path, and made     Light for me in the darkness, tempering sorrow     So that it reached me like a solemn joy;     It were too strange that I should doubt thy love.     But what am I? Thou madest him and knowest     How he was fashioned. I could never err     That way: the quiet place beside thy feet,     Reserved for me, was ever in my thoughts:     But he thou shouldst have favoured him as well!     Ah! he wakens! Aureole, I am here! 't is Festus!     I cast away all wishes save one wish     Let him but know me, only speak to me!     He mutters; louder and louder; any other     Than I, with brain less laden, could collect     What he pours forth. Dear Aureole, do but look!     Is it talking or singing, this he utters fast?     Misery that he should fix me with his eye,     Quick talking to some other all the while!     If he would husband this wild vehemence     Which frustrates its intent! I heard, I know     I heard my name amid those rapid words.     Oh, he will know me yet! Could I divert     This current, lead it somehow gently back     Into the channels of the past! His eye     Brighter than ever! It must recognize me!     I am Erasmus: I am here to pray     That Paracelsus use his skill for me.     The schools of Paris and of Padua send     These questions for your learning to resolve.     We are your students, noble master: leave     This wretched cell, what business have you here?     Our class awaits you; come to us once more!     (O agony! the utmost I can do     Touches him not; how else arrest his ear?)     I am commissioned . . . I shall craze like him.     Better be mute and see what God shall send.     Paracelsus.     Stay, stay with me!     Festus.     I will; I am come here     To stay with you Festus, you loved of old;     Festus, you know, you must know!     Paracelsus.     Festus! Where's     Aprile, then? Has he not chanted softly     The melodies I heard all night? I could not     Get to him for a cold hand on my breast,     But I made out his music well enough,     O well enough! If they have filled him full     With magical music, as they freight a star     With light, and have remitted all his sin,     They will forgive me too, I too shall know!     Festus.     Festus, your Festus!     Paracelsus.     Ask him if Aprile     Knows as he Loves if I shall Love and Know?     I try; but that cold hand, like lead so cold!     Festus.     My hand, see!     Paracelsus.     Ah, the curse, Aprile, Aprile!     We get so near so very, very near!     'T is an old tale: Jove strikes the Titans down,     Not when they set about their mountain-piling     But when another rock would crown the work.     And Phaeton doubtless his first radiant plunge     Astonished mortals, though the gods were calm,     And Jove prepared his thunder: all old tales!     Festus.     And what are these to you?     Paracelsus.     Ay, fiends must laugh     So cruelly, so well! most like I never     Could tread a single pleasure underfoot,     But they were grinning by my side, were chuckling     To see me toil and drop away by flakes!     Hell-spawn! I am glad, most glad, that thus I fail!     Your cunning has o'ershot its aim. One year,     One month, perhaps, and I had served your turn!     You should have curbed your spite awhile. But now,     Who will believe 't was you that held me back?     Listen: there's shame and hissing and contempt,     And none but laughs who names me, none but spits     Measureless scorn upon me, me alone,     The quack, the cheat, the liar, all on me!     And thus your famous plan to sink mankind     In silence and despair, by teaching them     One of their race had probed the inmost truth,     Had done all man could do, yet failed no less     Your wise plan proves abortive. Men despair?     Ha, ha! why, they are hooting the empiric,     The ignorant and incapable fool who rushed     Madly upon a work beyond his wits;     Nor doubt they but the simplest of themselves     Could bring the matter to triumphant issue.     So, pick and choose among them all, accursed!     Try now, persuade some other to slave for you,     To ruin body and soul to work your ends!     No, no; I am the first and last, I think.     Festus.     Dear friend, who are accursed? who has done     Paracelsus.     What have I done? Fiends dare ask that? or you,     Brave men? Oh, you can chime in boldly, backed     By the others! What had you to do, sage peers?     Here stand my rivals; Latin, Arab, Jew,     Greek, join dead hands against me: all I ask     Is, that the world enrol my name with theirs,     And even this poor privilege, it seems,     They range themselves, prepared to disallow.     Only observe! why, fiends may learn from them!     How they talk calmly of my throes, my fierce     Aspirings, terrible watchings, each one claiming     Its price of blood and brain; how they dissect     And sneeringly disparage the few truths     Got at a life's cost; they too hanging the while     About my neck, their lies misleading me     And their dead names browbeating me! Grey crew,     Yet steeped in fresh malevolence from hell,     Is there a reason for your hate? My truths     Have shaken a little the palm about each prince?     Just think, Aprile, all these leering dotards     Were bent on nothing less than to be crowned     As we! That yellow blear-eyed wretch in chief     To whom the rest cringe low with feigned respect,     Galen of Pergamos and hell nay speak     The tale, old man! We met there face to face:     I said the crown should fall from thee. Once more     We meet as in that ghastly vestibule:     Look to my brow! Have I redeemed my pledge?     Festus.     Peace, peace; ah, see!     Paracelsus.     Oh, emptiness of fame!     Oh Persic Zoroaster, lord of stars!     Who said these old renowns, dead long ago,     Could make me overlook the living world     To gaze through gloom at where they stood, indeed,     But stand no longer? What a warm light life     After the shade! In truth, my delicate witch,     My serpent-queen, you did but well to hide     The juggles I had else detected. Fire     May well run harmless o'er a breast like yours!     The cave was not so darkened by the smoke     But that your white limbs dazzled me: oh, white,     And panting as they twinkled, wildly dancing!     I cared not for your passionate gestures then,     But now I have forgotten the charm of charms,     The foolish knowledge which I came to seek,     While I remember that quaint dance; and thus     I am come back, not for those mummeries,     But to love you, and to kiss your little feet     Soft as an ermine's winter coat!     Festus.     A light     Will struggle through these thronging words at last.     As in the angry and tumultuous West     A soft star trembles through the drifting clouds.     These are the strivings of a spirit which hates     So sad a vault should coop it, and calls up     The past to stand between it and its fate.     Were he at Einsiedeln or Michal here!     Paracelsus.     Cruel! I seek her now I kneel I shriek     I clasp her vesture but she fades, still fades;     And she is gone; sweet human love is gone!     'T is only when they spring to heaven that angels     Reveal themselves to you; they sit all day     Beside you, and lie down at night by you     Who care not for their presence, muse or sleep,     And all at once they leave you, and you know them!     We are so fooled, so cheated! Why, even now     I am not too secure against foul play;     The shadows deepen and the walls contract:     No doubt some treachery is going on.     'T is very dusk. Where are we put, Aprile?     Have they left us in the lurch? This murky loathsome     Death-trap, this slaughter-house, is not the hall     In the golden city! Keep by me, Aprile!     There is a hand groping amid the blackness     To catch us. Have the spider-fingers got you,     Poet? Hold on me for your life! If once     They pull you! Hold!     'Tis but a dream no more!     I have you still; the sun comes out again;     Let us be happy: all will yet go well!     Let us confer: is it not like, Aprile,     That spite of trouble, this ordeal passed,     The value of my labours ascertained,     Just as some stream foams long among the rocks     But after glideth glassy to the sea,     So, full content shall henceforth be my lot?     What think you, poet? Louder! Your clear voice     Vibrates too like a harp-string. Do you ask     How could I still remain on earth, should God     Grant me the great approval which I seek?     I, you, and God can comprehend each other,     But men would murmur, and with cause enough;     For when they saw me, stainless of all sin,     Preserved and sanctified by inward light,     They would complain that comfort, shut from them,     I drank thus unespied; that they live on,     Nor taste the quiet of a constant joy,     For ache and care and doubt and weariness,     While I am calm; help being vouchsafed to me,     And hid from them. 'T were best consider that!     You reason well, Aprile; but at least     Let me know this, and die! Is this too much?     I will learn this, if God so please, and die!     If thou shalt please, dear God, if thou shalt please!     We are so weak, we know our motives least     In their confused beginning. If at first     I sought . . . but wherefore bare my heart to thee?     I know thy mercy; and already thoughts     Flock fast about my soul to comfort it,     And intimate I cannot wholly fail,     For love and praise would clasp me willingly     Could I resolve to seek them. Thou art good,     And I should be content. Yet yet first show     I have done wrong in daring! Rather give     The supernatural consciousness of strength     Which fed my youth! Only one hour of that     With thee to help O what should bar me then!     Lost, lost! Thus things are ordered here! God's creatures,     And yet he takes no pride in us! none, none!     Truly there needs another life to come!     If this be all (I must tell Festus that)     And other life await us not for one,     I say 't is a poor cheat, a stupid bungle,     A wretched failure. I, for one, protest     Against it, and I hurl it back with scorn.     Well, onward though alone! Small time remains,     And much to do: I must have fruit, must reap     Some profit from my toils. I doubt my body     Will hardly serve me through; while I have laboured     It has decayed; and now that I demand     Its best assistance, it will crumble fast:     A sad thought, a sad fate! How very full     Of wormwood 't is, that just at altar-service,     The rapt hymn rising with the rolling smoke,     When glory dawns and all is at the best,     The sacred fire may flicker and grow faint     And die for want of a wood-piler's help!     Thus fades the flagging body, and the soul     Is pulled down in the overthrow. Well, well     Let men catch every word, let them lose nought     Of what I say; something may yet be done.     They are ruins! Trust me who am one of you!     All ruins, glorious once, but lonely now.     It makes my heart sick to behold you crouch     Beside your desolate fane: the arches dim,     The crumbling columns grand against the moon,     Could I but rear them up once more but that     May never be, so leave them! Trust me, friends,     Why should you linger here when I have built     A far resplendent temple, all your own?     Trust me, they are but ruins! See, Aprile,     Men will not heed! Yet were I not prepared     With better refuge for them, tongue of mine     Should ne'er reveal how blank their dwelling is:     I would sit down in silence with the rest.     Ha, what? you spit at me, you grin and shriek     Contempt into my ear my ear which drank     God's accents once? you curse me? Why men, men,     I am not formed for it! Those hideous eyes     Will be before me sleeping, waking, praying,     They will not let me even die. Spare, spare me,     Sinning or no, forget that, only spare me     The horrible scorn! You thought I could support it.     But now you see what silly fragile creature     Cowers thus. I am not good nor bad enough,     Not Christ nor Cain, yet even Cain was saved     From Hate like this. Let me but totter back!     Perhaps I shall elude those jeers which creep     Into my very brain, and shut these scorched     Eyelids and keep those mocking faces out.     Listen, Aprile! I am very calm:     Be not deceived, there is no passion here     Where the blood leaps like an imprisoned thing:     I am calm: I will exterminate the race!     Enough of that: 't is said and it shall be.     And now be merry: safe and sound am I     Who broke through their best ranks to get at you.     And such a havoc, such a rout, Aprile!     Festus.     Have you no thought, no memory for me,     Aureole? I am so wretched my pure Michal     Is gone, and you alone are left me now,     And even you forget me. Take my hand     Lean on me thus. Do you not know me, Aureole?     Paracelsus.     Festus, my own friend, you are come at last?     As you say, 't is an awful enterprise;     But you believe I shall go through with it:     'T is like you, and I thank you. Thank him for me,     Dear Michal! See how bright St. Saviour's spire     Flames in the sunset; all its figures quaint     Gay in the glancing light: you might conceive them     A troop of yellow-vested white-haired Jews     Bound for their own land where redemption dawns.     Festus.     Not that blest time not our youth's time, dear God!     Paracelsus.     Ha stay! true, I forget all is done since,     And he is come to judge me. How he speaks,     How calm, how well! yes, it is true, all true;     All quackery; all deceit; myself can laugh     The first at it, if you desire: but still     You know the obstacles which taught me tricks     So foreign to my nature envy and hate,     Blind opposition, brutal prejudice,     Bald ignorance what wonder if I sunk     To humour men the way they most approved?     My cheats were never palmed on such as you,     Dear Festus! I will kneel if you require me,     Impart the meagre knowledge I possess,     Explain its bounded nature, and avow     My insufficiency whate'er you will:     I give the fight up: let there be an end,     A privacy, an obscure nook for me.     I want to be forgotten even by God.     But if that cannot be, dear Festus, lay me,     When I shall die, within some narrow grave,     Not by itself for that would be too proud     But where such graves are thickest; let it look     Nowise distinguished from the hillocks round,     So that the peasant at his brother's bed     May tread upon my own and know it not;     And we shall all be equal at the last,     Or classed according to life's natural ranks,     Fathers, sons, brothers, friends not rich, nor wise,     Nor gifted: lay me thus, then say, "He lived     "Too much advanced before his brother men;     "They kept him still in front: 't was for their good     "But yet a dangerous station. It were strange     "That he should tell God he had never ranked     "With men: so, here at least he is a man."     Festus.     That God shall take thee to his breast, dear spirit,     Unto his breast, be sure! and here on earth     Shall splendour sit upon thy name for ever.     Sun! all the heaven is glad for thee: what care     If lower mountains light their snowy phares     At thine effulgence, yet acknowledge not     The source of day? Their theft shall be their bale:     For after-ages shall retrack thy beams,     And put aside the crowd of busy ones     And worship thee alone the master-mind,     The thinker, the explorer, the creator!     Then, who should sneer at the convulsive throes     With which thy deeds were born, would scorn as well     The sheet of winding subterraneous fire     Which, pent and writhing, sends no less at last     Huge islands up amid the simmering sea.     Behold thy might in me! thou hast infused     Thy soul in mine; and I am grand as thou,     Seeing I comprehend thee I so simple,     Thou so august. I recognize thee first;     I saw thee rise, I watched thee early and late,     And though no glance reveal thou dost accept     My homage thus no less I proffer it,     And bid thee enter gloriously thy rest.     Paracelsus.     Festus!     Festus.     I am for noble Aureole, God!     I am upon his side, come weal or woe.     His portion shall be mine. He has done well.     I would have sinned, had I been strong enough,     As he has sinned. Reward him or I waive     Reward! If thou canst find no place for him,     He shall be king elsewhere, and I will be     His slave for ever. There are two of us.     Paracelsus.     Dear Festus!     Festus.     Here, dear Aureole! ever by you!     Paracelsus.     Nay, speak on, or I dream again. Speak on!     Some story, anything only your voice.     I shall dream else. Speak on! ay, leaning so!     Festus.     Thus the Mayne glideth     Where my Love abideth.     Sleep's no softer: it proceeds     On through lawns, on through meads,     On and on, whate'er befall,     Meandering and musical,     Though the niggard pasturage     Bears not on its shaven ledge     Aught but weeds and waving grasses     To view the river as it passes,     Save here and there a scanty patch     Of primroses too faint to catch     A weary bee.     Paracelsus.     More, more; say on!     Festus.     And scarce it pushes     Its gentle way through strangling rushes     Where the glossy kingfisher     Flutters when noon-heats are near,     Glad the shelving banks to shun,     Red and steaming in the sun,     Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat     Burrows, and the speckled stoat;     Where the quick sandpipers flit     In and out the marl and grit     That seems to breed them, brown as they:     Nought disturbs its quiet way,     Save some lazy stork that springs,     Trailing it with legs and wings,     Whom the shy fox from the hill     Rouses, creep he ne'er so still.     Paracelsus.     My heart! they loose my heart, those simple words;     Its darkness passes, which nought else could touch:     Like some dark snake that force may not expel,     Which glideth out to music sweet and low.     What were you doing when your voice broke through     A chaos of ugly images? You, indeed!     Are you alone here?     Festus.     All alone: you know me?     This cell?     Paracelsus.     An unexceptionable vault:     Good brick and stone: the bats kept out, the rats     Kept in: a snug nook: how should I mistake it?     Festus.     But wherefore am I here?     Paracelsus.     Ah, well remembered!     Why, for a purpose for a purpose, Festus!     'T is like me: here I trifle while time fleets,     And this occasion, lost, will ne'er return.     You are here to be instructed. I will tell     God's message; but I have so much to say,     I fear to leave half out. All is confused     No doubt; but doubtless you will learn in time.     He would not else have brought you here: no doubt     I shall see clearer soon.     Festus.     Tell me but this     You are not in despair?     Paracelsus.     I? and for what?     Festus.     Alas, alas! he knows not, as I feared!     Paracelsus.     What is it you would ask me with that earnest     Dear searching face?     Festus.     How feel you, Aureole?     Paracelsus.     Well:     Well. 'T is a strange thing: I am dying, Festus,     And now that fast the storm of life subsides,     I first perceive how great the whirl has been.     I was calm then, who am so dizzy now     Calm in the thick of the tempest, but no less     A partner of its motion and mixed up     With its career. The hurricane is spent,     And the good boat speeds through the brightening weather;     But is it earth or sea that heaves below?     The gulf rolls like a meadow-swell, o'erstrewn     With ravaged boughs and remnants of the shore;     And now some slet, loosened from the land,     Swims past with all its trees, sailing to ocean;     And now the air is full of uptorn canes,     Light strippings from the fan-trees, tamarisks     Unrooted, with their birds still clinging to them,     All high in the wind. Even so my varied life     Drifts by me; I am young, old, happy, sad,     Hoping, desponding, acting, taking rest,     And all at once: that is, those past conditions     Float back at once on me. If I select     Some special epoch from the crowd, 't is but     To will, and straight the rest dissolve away,     And only that particular state is present     With all its long-forgotten circumstance     Distinct and vivid as at first myself     A careless looker-on and nothing more,     Indifferent and amused, but nothing more.     And this is death: I understand it all.     New being waits me; new perceptions must     Be born in me before I plunge therein;     Which last is Death's affair; and while I speak,     Minute by minute he is filling me     With power; and while my foot is on the threshold     Of boundless life the doors unopened yet,     All preparations not complete within     I turn new knowledge upon old events,     And the effect is . . . but I must not tell;     It is not lawful. Your own turn will come     One day. Wait, Festus! You will die like me.     Festus.     'T is of that past life that I burn to hear.     Paracelsus.     You wonder it engages me just now?     In truth, I wonder too. What 's life to me?     Where'er I look is fire, where'er I listen     Music, and where I tend bliss evermore.     Yet how can I refrain? 'T is a refined     Delight to view those chances, one last view.     I am so near the perils I escape,     That I must play with them and turn them over,     To feel how fully they are past and gone.     Still, it is like, some further cause exists     For this peculiar mood some hidden purpose;     Did I not tell you something of it, Festus?     I had it fast, but it has somehow slipt     Away from me; it will return anon.     Festus.     (Indeed his cheek seems young again, his voice     Complete with its old tones: that little laugh     Concluding every phrase, with upturned eye,     As though one stooped above his head to whom     He looked for confirmation and approval,     Where was it gone so long, so well preserved?     Then, the fore-finger pointing as he speaks,     Like one who traces in an open book     The matter he declares; 't is many a year     Since I remarked it last: and this in him,     But now a ghastly wreck!)     And can it be,     Dear Aureole, you have then found out at last     That worldly things are utter vanity?     That man is made for weakness, and should wait     In patient ignorance, till God appoint . . .     Paracelsus.     Ha, the purpose: the true purpose: that is it!     How could I fail to apprehend! You here,     I thus! But no more trifling: I see all,     I know all: my last mission shall be done     If strength suffice. No trifling! Stay; this posture     Hardly befits one thus about to speak:     I will arise.     Festus.     Nay, Aureole, are you wild?     You cannot leave your couch.     Paracelsus.     No help; no help;     Not even your hand. So! there, I stand once more!     Speak from a couch? I never lectured thus.     My gown the scarlet lined with fur; now put     The chain about my neck; my signet-ring     Is still upon my hand, I think even so;     Last, my good sword; ah, trusty Azoth, leapest     Beneath thy master's grasp for the last time?     This couch shall be my throne: I bid these walls     Be consecrate, this wretched cell become     A shrine, for here God speaks to men through me.     Now, Festus, I am ready to begin.     Festus.     I am dumb with wonder.     Paracelsus.     Listen, therefore, Festus!     There will be time enough, but none to spare.     I must content myself with telling only     The most important points. You doubtless feel     That I am happy, Festus; very happy.     Festus.     'T is no delusion which uplifts him thus!     Then you are pardoned, Aureole, all your sin?     Paracelsus.     Ay, pardoned: yet why pardoned?     Festus.     'T is God's praise     That man is bound to seek, and you . . .     Paracelsus.     Have lived!     We have to live alone to set forth well     God's praise. 'T is true, I sinned much, as I thought,     And in effect need mercy, for I strove     To do that very thing; but, do your best     Or worst, praise rises, and will rise for ever     Pardon from him, because of praise denied     Who calls me to himself to exalt himself?     He might laugh as I laugh!     Festus.     But all comes     To the same thing. 'T is fruitless for mankind     To fret themselves with what concerns them not;     They are no use that way: they should lie down     Content as God has made them, nor go mad     In thriveless cares to better what is ill.     Paracelsus.     No, no; mistake me not; let me not work     More harm than I have worked! This is my case:     If I go joyous back to God, yet bring     No offering, if I render up my soul     Without the fruits it was ordained to bear,     If I appear the better to love God     For sin, as one who has no claim on him,-     Be not deceived! It may be surely thus     With me, while higher prizes still await     The mortal persevering to the end.     Beside I am not all so valueless:     I have been something, though too soon I left     Following the instincts of that happy time.     Festus.     What happy time? For God's sake, for man's sake,     What time was happy? All I hope to know     That answer will decide. What happy time?     Paracelsus.     When but the time I vowed myself to man?     Festus.     Great God, thy judgments are inscrutable!     Paracelsus.     Yes, it was in me; I was born for it     I, Paracelsus: it was mine by right.     Doubtless a searching and impetuous soul     Might learn from its own motions that some task     Like this awaited it about the world;     Might seek somewhere in this blank life of ours     For fit delights to stay its longings vast;     And, grappling Nature, so prevail on her     To fill the creature full she dared thus frame     Hungry for joy; and, bravely tyrannous,     Grow in demand, still craving more and more,     And make each joy conceded prove a pledge     Of other joy to follow bating nought     Of its desires, still seizing fresh pretence     To turn the knowledge and the rapture wrung     As an extreme, last boon, from destiny,     Into occasion for new coyetings,     New strifes, new triumphs: doubtless a strong soul,     Alone, unaided might attain to this,     So glorious is our nature, so august     Man's inborn uninstructed impulses,     His naked spirit so majestical!     But this was born in me; I was made so;     Thus much time saved: the feverish appeties,     The tumult of unproved desire, the unaimed     Uncertain yearnings, aspirations blind,     Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in tears     Were saved me; thus I entered on my course.     You may be sure I was not all exempt     From human trouble; just so much of doubt     As bade me plant a surer foot upon     The sun-road, kept my eye unruined 'mid     The fierce and flashing splendour, set my heart     Trembling so much as warned me I stood there     On sufferance not to idly gaze, but cast     Light on a darkling race; save for that doubt,     I stood at first where all aspire at last     To stand: the secret of the world was mine.     I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed,     Uncomprehended by our narrow thought,     But somehow felt and known in every shift     And change in the spirit, nay, in every pore     Of the body, even,) what God is, what we are,     What life is how God tastes an infinite joy     In infinite ways one everlasting bliss,     From whom all being emanates, all power     Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore,     Yet whom existence in its lowest form     Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he;     With still a flying point of bliss remote,     A happiness in store afar, a sphere     Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs     Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever.     The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth,     And the earth changes like a human face;     The molten ore bursts up among the rocks,     Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright     In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds,     Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask     God joys therein. The wroth sea's waves are edged     With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate,     When, in the solitary waste, strange groups     Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like,     Staring together with their eyes on flame     God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride.     Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod:     But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes     Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure     Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between     The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost,     Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face;     The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms     Like chrysalids impatient for the air,     The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run     Along the furrows, ants make their ado;     Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark     Soars up and up, shivering for very joy;     Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls     Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe     Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek     Their loves in wood and plain and God renews     His ancient rapture. Thus he dwells in all,     From life's minute beginnings, up at last     To man the consummation of this scheme     Of being, the completion of this sphere     Of life: whose attributes had here and there     Been scattered o'er the visible world before,     Asking to be combined, dim fragments meant     To be united in some wondrous whole,     Imperfect qualities throughout creation,     Suggesting some one creature yet to make,     Some point where all those scattered rays should meet     Convergent in the faculties of man.     Power neither put forth blindly, nor controlled     Calmly by perfect knowledge; to be used     At risk, inspired or checked by hope and fear:     Knowledge not intuition, but the slow     Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil,     Strengthened by love: love not serenely pure,     But strong from weakness, like a chance-sown plant     Which, cast on stubborn soil, puts forth changed buds     And softer stains, unknown in happier climes;     Love which endures and doubts and is oppressed     And cherished, suffering much and much sustained,     And blind, oft-failing, yet believing love,     A half-enlightened, often-chequered trust:     Hints and previsions of which faculties,     Are strewn confusedly everywhere about     The inferior natures, and all lead up higher,     All shape out dimly the superior race,     The heir of hopes too fair to turn out false,     And man appears at last. So far the seal     Is put on life; one stage of being complete,     One scheme wound up: and from the grand result     A supplementary reflux of light,     Illustrates all the inferior grades, explains     Each back step in the circle. Not alone     For their possessor dawn those qualities,     But the new glory mixes with the heaven     And earth; man, once descried, imprints for ever     His presence on all lifeless things: the winds     Are henceforth voices, wailing or a shout,     A querulous mutter or a quick gay laugh,     Never a senseless gust now man is born.     The herded pines commune and have deep thoughts     A secret they assemble to discuss     When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare     Like grates of hell: the peerless cup afloat     Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph     Swims bearing high above her head: no bird     Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above     That let light in upon the gloomy woods,     A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top,     Arch with small puckered mouth and mocking eye.     The morn has enterprise, deep quiet droops     With evening, triumph takes the sunset hour,     Voluptuous transport ripens with the corn     Beneath a warm moon like a happy face:     And this to fill us with regard for man.     With apprehension of his passing worth,     Desire to work his proper nature out,     And ascertain his rank and final place,     For these things tend still upward, progress is     The law of life, man is not Man as yet.     Nor shall I deem his object served, his end     Attained, his genuine strength put fairly forth,     While only here and there a star dispels     The darkness, here and there a towering mind     O'erlooks its prostrate fellows: when the host     Is out at once to the despair of night,     When all mankind alike is perfected,     Equal in full-blown powers then, not till then,     I say, begins man's general infancy.     For wherefore make account of feverish starts     Of restless members of a dormant whole,     Impatient nerves which quiver while the body     Slumbers as in a grave? Oh long ago     The brow was twitched, the tremulous lids astir,     The peaceful mouth disturbed; half-uttered speech     Ruffled the lip, and then the teeth were set,     The breath drawn sharp, the strong right-hand clenched stronger,     As it would pluck a lion by the jaw;     The glorious creature laughed out even in sleep!     But when full roused, each giant-limb awake,     Each sinew strung, the great heart pulsing fast,     He shall start up and stand on his own earth,     Then shall his long triumphant march begin,     Thence shall his being date, thus wholly roused,     What he achieves shall be set down to him.     When all the race is perfected alike     As man, that is; all tended to mankind,     And, man produced, all has its end thus far:     But in completed man begins anew     A tendency to God. Prognostics told     Man's near approach; so in man's self arise     August anticipations, symbols, types     Of a dim splendour ever on before     In that eternal circle life pursues.     For men begin to pass their nature's bound,     And find new hopes and cares which fast supplant     Their proper joys and griefs; they grow too great     For narrow creeds of right and wrong, which fade     Before the unmeasured thirst for good: while peace     Rises within them ever more and more.     Such men are even now upon the earth,     Serene amid the half-formed creatures round     Who should be saved by them and joined with them.     Such was my task, and I was born to it     Free, as I said but now, from much that chains     Spirits, high-dowered but limited and vexed     By a divided and delusive aim,     A shadow mocking a reality     Whose truth avails not wholly to disperse     The flitting mimic called up by itself,     And so remains perplexed and nigh put out     By its fantastic fellow's wavering gleam.     I, from the first, was never cheated thus;     I never fashioned out a fancied good     Distinct from man's; a service to be done,     A glory to be ministered unto     With powers put forth at man's expense, withdrawn     From labouring in his behalf; a strength     Denied that might avail him. I cared not     Lest his success ran counter to success     Elsewhere: for God is glorified in man,     And to man's glory vowed I soul and limb.     Yet, constituted thus, and thus endowed,     I failed: I gazed on power till I grew blind.     Power; I could not take my eyes from that:     That only, I thought, should be preserved, increased     At any risk, displayed, struck out at once-     The sign and note and character of man.     I saw no use in the past: only a scene     Of degradation, ugliness and tears,     The record of disgraces best forgotten,     A sullen page in human chronicles     Fit to erase. I saw no cause why man     Should not stand all-sufficient even now,     Or why his annals should be forced to tell     That once the tide of light, about to break     Upon the world, was sealed within its spring:     I would have had one day, one moment's space,     Change man's condition, push each slumbering claim     Of mastery o'er the elemental world     At once to full maturity, then roll     Oblivion o'er the work, and hide from man     What night had ushered morn. Not so, dear child     Of after-days, wilt thou reject the past     Big with deep warnings of the proper tenure     By which thou hast the earth: for thee the present     Shall have distinct and trembling beauty, seen     Beside that past's own shade when, in relief,     Its brightness shall stand out: nor yet on thee     Shall burst the future, as successive zones     Of several wonder open on some spirit     Flying secure and glad from heaven to heaven:     But thou shalt painfully attain to joy,     While hope and fear and love shall keep thee man!     All this was hid from me: as one by one     My dreams grew dim, my wide aims circumscribed,     As actual good within my reach decreased,     While obstacles sprung up this way and that     To keep me from effecting half the sum,     Small as it proved; as objects, mean within     The primal aggregate, seemed, even the least,     Itself a match for my concentred strength     What wonder if I saw no way to shun     Despair? The power I sought for man, seemed God's.     In this conjuncture, as I prayed to die,     A strange adventure made me know, one sin     Had spotted my career from its uprise;     I saw Aprile my Aprile there!     And as the poor melodious wretch disburthened     His heart, and moaned his weakness in my ear,     I learned my own deep error; love's undoing     Taught me the worth of love in man's estate,     And what proportion love should hold with power     In his right constitution; love preceding     Power, and with much power, always much more love;     Love still too straitened in his present means,     And earnest for new power to set love free.     I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned:     And thus, when men received with stupid wonder     My first revealings, would have worshipped me,     And I despised and loathed their proffered praise     When, with awakened eyes, they took revenge     For past credulity in casting shame     On my real knowledge, and I hated them     It was not strange I saw no good in man,     To overbalance all the wear and waste     Of faculties, displayed in vain, but born     To prosper in some better sphere: and why?     In my own heart love had not been made wise     To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind,     To know even hate is but a mask of love's,     To see a good in evil, and a hope     In ill-success; to sympathize, be proud     Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim     Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies,     Their prejudice and fears and cares and doubts;     All with a touch of nobleness, despite     Their error, upward tending all though weak,     Like plants in mines which never saw the sun,     But dream of him, and guess where he may be,     And do their best to climb and get to him.     All this I knew not, and I failed. Let men     Regard me, and the poet dead long ago     Who loved too rashly; and shape forth a third     And better-tempered spirit, warned by both:     As from the over-radiant star too mad     To drink the life-springs, beamless thence itself     And the dark orb which borders the abyss,     Ingulfed in icy night, might have its course     A temperate and equidistant world.     Meanwhile, I have done well, though not all well.     As yet men cannot do without contempt;     'T is for their good, and therefore fit awhile     That they reject the weak, and scorn the false,     Rather than praise the strong and true, in me:     But after, they will know me. If I stoop     Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud,     It is but for a time; I press God's lamp     Close to my breast; its splendour, soon or late,     Will pierce the gloom: I shall emerge one day.     You understand me? I have said enough?     Festus.     Now die, dear Aureole!     Paracelsus.     Festus, let my hand     This hand, lie in your own, my own true friend!     Aprile! Hand in hand with you, Aprile!     Festus.     And this was Paracelsus!